Weekly Sonnet 17

The Happiest Day of My Life (Monday)

I feel joy again, in the way gazelles
feel after the leopard discontinues
the chase. The nineties taught us “sex sells”.
In the naught-ys, give me freedom of fear.

Or, what I could be feeling now is sim-
ilar to the scene in Sen to Chihir-
o... when after night, she sees pastel hues
again, biting into the rice cake: sim-
ple pleasures to sob uncontrollably
over. I hope in Congress, the assur-
ance: cronies hired no longer (probably).

Us, the nation will never behoove your
unorthodox information retriev-
als. Not full dystopia: my relief.

 

Weekly Sonnet 16

Vulcanalia

Accentuating with His White Light/White

Heat. (I don’t believe in weakness...) Coming
At you with the Frist of God (?) But delight:
My wristly saint was an American
Mahzlem. (it costs too much.) Really, who can
Ever disbelieve an axiom un-
Resolved? The thing that is unbecoming

Shall be won and the thing what has been won:
That, too shall become done. Tout jamais
Renaissent sous ce fils.―You hate my freedom!―
Is it? (I don’t believe in...)―Terror from—
Kick him to the curb! Triumph of the way.
Est-ce (questions either.) que ta guerre dans
Ses yeux vraiment pour bonne volontée?―Quand?

Weekly Sonnet 15

Celia Hodes (Incinerating. Hydroponic. Provident.)

Spite is a healthy motive for any-
thing. In running for public office, though,
it’s assumed imperative. Not shocking
either be Issy’s financial estrange-
ment, your mirror. (I find it hard to know
you bereave the beauty they are.) Thy knee-
jerk reactions can make a heart derange.

(Are you Holden Caulfield?) Are you asking
for—? How dangerous to moon the secur-
ity camera or more to piss in
the Memorial Fountain. Wait for your
sweet taste from a moist fakery muffin.
Miss LaPlante, you’re not a mom anymore,
you’re a woman! (I can feel your dolor.)

Weekly Sonnet 14

Ex Tedium Robotica Est

Autoerraticasphyxiation
doth plague this film, but you know that’s a non-
word which is just like Bourne’s non-intrigue, what
is indistinguishable from his false-
intrigue. Worse indeed: its cinemation
quakes as if I were K-hole emergent.

My cerebellum has achingly gone
away; thy tightening zooms do make plent-
y aggravations myopia-wise.

Inattr(action) yeilds to the “story” sput-
ters, wishing full-body-dry-heave were waltz,
or maybe I’m still putting back my eyes.
If I want to see backs of heads preten-
tiously, I would queue up for Space Mountain.

Weekly Sonnet 13

AGAG

No information eked from you, I see.
And wherefore wouldst thou? How depraved we must
infer thine actions to be, delicate
too, our countenance; Ashcroft’s prudishness
we could (never) easily tolerate.

If any of us were (are) forgiven
of a DUI, we’d sow our (their) glee
and hide it fairly well. But can we trust
with Fredo anything more than a dog-
bite claim or the defense of  that adven-
turous—starts: We the people—(names) Doc-
ument. We hear your legal reach-[a guess]
and-run-around or “testimony” (spok-
en) It would be funny if ’twere a joke.